An Excellent and Admirable Hobbit
by ceallaig1
Summary: Bofur settles into life in Hobbiton with his One, opens a toy shop, and meets a very special young lady.


If there was one thing the good folk of Hobbiton and the surrounding villages could all agree on, it was that Mr. Bofur was an odd one.

He was so tall, and wore that funny hat that looked as though it was about to take flight, and those great boots (though over time he wore those less and less often, especially when the weather was fine). And then of course he was a Dwarf, and that was a nine-days' wonder all by itself. That he was taken with Mr. Bilbo, and Mr. Bilbo was taken with him, was as plain as the hair on your feet. And Mr. Bilbo, while a most respectable Hobbit in his way (at least, until he'd run off to Eru knew where for months and months, and then didn't talk much about it afterward, which was unforgivable, as Hobbits always enjoyed a good tale), always did have a bit of a wild streak in him. It truly shouldn't have surprised anyone that he'd come back home laden with gold and with a Dwarf from the eastern Mountains in tow.

Not to say that having a Dwarf by his side was a bad thing, as it turned out. It was Mr. Bofur that kept the crowd at bay while Mr. Bilbo demanded to know what in the name of Mahal they were doing auctioning off _his things, _and Mr. Bofur who went with him to demand the items that had already been purchased. And even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was no match for a Dwarf with thunder in his voice and lightning in his eyes, not to mention that huge mattock in his hands. Mr. Bofur might smile a lot now, and a fine smile it was, but that day he was as fierce as old Bullroarer Took.

The fierceness didn't last—Mr. Bofur turned out to be a friendly sort, always ready with a song or a story of an evening. The tales he told in the tavern would stand one's hair on end – stories of Orcs, and trolls, and dragons, and great beast-men…surely no one had such an imagination. He kept his audiences spellbound, and Mr. Bilbo just shook his head and smoked his pipe and drank his ale, a smile shining in his eyes.

And one would expect a Dwarf to open a forge, because isn't that what Dwarves were good at? Not Mr. Bofur. When word got round that there was a new toy shop in the market, of course everyone had to see. And such toys! Dolls of all kinds, each so lifelike one expected them to hop off the shelf and dance. Puppets that were so cunningly wrought that they nearly didn't need strings. Clockwork fancies and mechanicals, detailed beyond belief. Small toys and flutes and tops carved of wood and bone, brightly painted and smooth to the touch. It was hard to believe those huge callused hands could work such delicate magic, but there was the evidence in front of their eyes.

Needless to say, the shop became the favorite spot for the young ones of the town. Mr. Bofur kept a genial eye on the shop, but never had an objection to little fingers investigating his wares. "Toys need to be loved, and who has more love in their hearts than children?" he'd say. And if a jam stain ended up on a doll's dress, or a carved horse lost a bit of paint after being dropped…well, he didn't seem to mind. The item would be mended and returned to the displays, and that was that.

"She's a beauty, isn't she? One of my best, if I do say so myself."

The little lass, tiny even by Hobbit standards, had a hard time tearing her gaze away from the doll to look up at Bofur. He bit back a smile, remembering his own reaction to one of Bifur's mechanical birds when he was a wee one himself. The wonder of a child remained the same across all races, cultures, and genders, it seemed.

She nodded, her penny-bright hair brushing against her shoulders. Her frock, while scrupulously neat and clean, had seen better days – faded colors and careful mending bore evidence of having been handed down and made to last as long as possible. Bofur knew all about that – there had not been a lot of money when he was growing up, and his mam had made over and made do for him and Bombur many a time.

"I seem to have put her a bit out of your reach; would you like me to bring her down for a closer look?"

The dark eyes went wide, and Bofur thought she might refuse, but then came another small nod and the beginnings of a smile. He smiled back and took the doll off the shelf, careful not to crumple her sky-blue silk gown. Bombur's wife had made the dress to his specifications—Bofur had no skill with sewing—and it shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the window. The glass eyes were large and luminous, and the dark curls bounced at the slightest movement. "You can hold her if you like."

"Can I, Mama?" The voice was as tiny as its owner, and for the first time Bofur noticed the woman standing a few feet away.

"If Mr. Bofur says it's all right, then of course you can, Lily." She graced Bofur with a tired smile, shifting her shopping basket to the other arm. Bright hair like her daughter, and probably young, though hard times and worry had etched lines around her eyes, making her appear older. Because of his mam, Bofur knew about that, too.

"Lily, is it? Well, Miss Lily, meet Bluebell." Bofur knelt so he was eye level with the child, and held out the doll. He bit back a smile as Lily scrubbed her hands on the skirt of her frock before taking the doll.

"Bluebell?'

"Aye, that's her name, she told me so herself."

"She did?" Lily's gaze, already admiring, turned nearly reverent as she cradled the doll in her arms.

"Sure, and how else would I know what to call her if she didn't tell me? And you know what? I think I'm seeing a little bit of a smile from her—she likes you holding her. What do you think?"

"M-maybe…I think so."

"This is good—she's been awfully sad lately. See, her sister Marigold…"

"The one that had the pretty yellow dress?"

"The very one. Marigold went home with a little one last week, and now Bluebell is sitting up there with no one to talk to. Dandy Jack over there," he tilted his head, indicating a handsome poppet in Erebor blue, " is a bit of a snob and can't be bothered with a civil conversation. He's one of my cousin Bifur's clockworks so he thinks he's better than the rest of them. And I think the other dolls might be a wee bit jealous of Bluebell because she's so pretty. I talk to her as much as I can, but I've the shop to run, and then there's all night long when the shop is closed."

"Poor Bluebell," the child whispered, gathering the doll in closer, fingers playing feather-soft against the dark curls.

"It's time to go home, Lily," her mother said after a few moments. "You need to give Bluebell back to Mr. Bofur. And remember your manners."

Reluctantly the child did as her mother asked, tiny hands caressing the silk gown one last time. "Thank you, Mr. Bofur." There was a pause, then she asked in a voice so quiet Bofur could barely hear her, "Could I…could I come back and talk to Bluebell sometimes? So she won't be so lonely?"

"You're welcome any time you choose, Miss Lily…wait a minute. What was that, Bluebell?" Bofur held the doll up to his ear and listened intently for a moment. "Well, I think that's a fine idea, but we'll have to ask them." He looked at Lily. "It seems that Bluebell here has taken quite a shine to you, Miss, and wants to know if she can go home with you. With your mam's permission, of course," he added, looking up at the mother.

"Oh, Mr. Bofur, we couldn't. She's far too … grand … "

"Truth be told, missus, you'd be doing me a favor. This poor thing has been on the point of tears for days now, and she's breaking my heart. She needs a child's arms to hold her—an old Dwarf just isn't the same thing. But you, Miss Lily, will have to promise to talk to her every day, and take her with you when you can. Will you do that?"

"I promise! Please, Mama?"

Bofur could see the unwillingness to accept what she saw as charity warring with the desire to see her child happy. But the little face that looked up at her with such hope would have melted a glacier, and a mere Hobbit heart was no match for it. Finally she nodded. "All right, Bluebell can come home with us, and you have to take very good care of her."

"I will!"

"I've no doubt of that at all," Bofur said as he handed the doll back to the child. "And Bluebell, you have to do your part, too. You have to keep her safe at night, and never let her be sad or lonely. And you have to bring her by to visit now and again."

Lily tucked Bluebell into one small arm, and threw the other one around Bofur's neck. "Thank you, Mr. Bofur, we'll take good care of each other!"

Bofur's eyes sparked as he hugged her back. "Thank you, Miss Lily." He disengaged and stood up, nodding to Lily's mother. "And thank you, ma'am…"

"Primrose, Primrose Sandybank."

"Delighted to meet you, Mistress Sandybank," he said as he bowed.

"We really do have to be getting on now, but we'll be back for a visit soon." Primrose's gaze swept over the shop. "This must be a wonderful place to work, with all these lovely things."

"You…wouldn't be looking for some, would you? Work, I mean. I was just going to put this in the window when I noticed the wee one." Bofur held up the hand lettered HELP WANTED sign that he'd set down on the counter. "Bilbo's been after me to get someone in here. Nothing too much—just keeping the place tidy, looking after the till, and if you're handy with a needle and thread…"

"I'm very good at sewing, and I kept the books for our shop…before the fire." Just for a moment, there was more than the loss of a store in the faraway look in her eyes, a glimpse of a memory old enough to be almost an afterthought, but still new enough to create an ache. She blinked twice, and it was gone, the lines around her eyes deepening with a heartfelt smile. "I'd be honored to work here, Mr. Bofur."

"Well, that's grand!" he said. "We'll work out a schedule that will let you look after Miss Lily here, and she's always welcome to come with you. We'll talk it over tomorrow—you go ahead home and get Bluebell settled in."

"We will. Thank you again." Mother and daughter exited the shop, the child murmuring to her new friend all the way out the door. Bofur watched them leave, and couldn't quite summon up the will to erase the smile on his face. He tore the sign in half and stowed it in the trash bin.

"That's no way to run a business, you know," came a soft voice from the entrance to the stock room. Bilbo leaned against the archway, the admonishing tone softened by the fond light in his eyes. "You can't keep giving away the merchandise."

"Who says I can't? It's not like I need the money. And you should be happy—I did what you told me and got some help for the shop."

"So you did. And Primrose Sandybank is an excellent choice. She and Lily have had a hard time of it since the fire, and she won't take help from anyone. I'm a bit surprised you talked her into taking the doll. Has to be that Dwarven charm."

"Worked on you, didn't it?" Bofur came around the counter and bestowed a kiss on his One's forehead. "I'm guessing it's nearly time for dinner."

"Yes, and if another roast dries out because you got busy building something and forgot the time again, you'll be sleeping in the gardening shed."

"It happens once, and they never let you forget it," Bofur huffed. "Let me square things away and lock up, and I'll be home directly. Maybe even have time for a wee pipe before we eat. It's going to be a beautiful evening."

"Spoken like someone who's going native."

"There are worse things. See you at home." Bilbo kissed his cheek, and the elderly Hobbit who had just come in – one of the Proudfoots, if Bofur recalled correctly – gave them both a gimlet stare but said nothing. Bilbo shot the old one a brilliant smile and the bell above the door tinkled at his exit.

Bofur sold Master Proudfoot a fine pair of wooden horses for his great-grandson, and locked the door behind him when he left. He made short work of putting away the books and locking up the till, and cleared away the scraps on the workbench in the back. With everything set to rights, he let himself out the stockroom door and locked up behind him. Whistling a jaunty tune, he set off toward Bag End, touching his hat and smiling at all he passed. This was not the life he'd envisioned as a young dwarrow- surrounded by green fields, open skies, and furry-toed, bucolic townsfolk. But it was a good life, among good people, and the best of them all waited for him in a snug smial under the hill. There would be pipes, and good food, and smiling eyes, and perhaps a song or two by the fire. Then later, a soft bed and warm arms would welcome him into sleep. No, not the life he'd once envisioned, but everything he could have wanted and more.

Yes, the good folk of Hobbiton and the surrounding villages could agree on one thing: Mr. Bofur was certainly an odd one. But there was no denying he had a good heart, and Hobbiton was a brighter place for his presence in it. For all he had been born a Dwarf of the eastern mountains, he had the makings of an excellent and admirable Hobbit.


End file.
